I finished the final three episodes of House of Cards’ second season the other night, and I’m here today to say I’m sorry. Or, not really “sorry,” just wrong. In my review of the second season’s first few episodes, I focused on how the show’s tone is a tricky balance between satire and seriousness, and how that makes the series oftentimes play like a juicy, enjoyable, but sorta insubstantial lark. And while I still don’t entirely disagree with that sentiment, it was ultimately the wrong tack to take when looking at this show. I made a mistake! I judged too quickly! Sure I was hobbled by a strict confidentiality agreement, and with only the first four episodes at my disposal, it was impossible to make a fair overall assessment of the show. But really, I just plain wasn’t giving it enough credit.

If you don’t want to be spoiled about what happens all the way to the very end of season 2, read no further.

It is admittedly hard sometimes to appreciate House of Cards as a genuinely great show. We have Kevin Spacey goofing around with his exaggerated drawl and florid asides to the camera, and then there’s the narrative problem of Frank and Claire being so obviously up to no good that it’s impossible to not roll your eyes when some dupe so gullibly trusts them, thus ensuring their inevitable destruction. But it’s that inevitability that manages to rescue the show from the depths of cheese, and places it, I think, on the mantle right alongside some other great television.

It’s such a beautifully, mind-bogglingly crafted show, isn’t it? When you accept the reality that it’s not going to be some fascinatingly realistic look at the inner sancta of Washington power, House of Cards reveals itself as one of the most ingeniously built television series in a long, long time. Like the Underwoods’ own deft scheming, the writing is both improvisational and carefully structured, mapped out in the long-term but adaptive and quick on its feet from moment to moment. If every narrative rivulet, and there are many of them, is guided from the very beginning to lead to its eventual end, then that is a superhuman feat of storytelling. But if, as is likely, the writers are instead filling in the blanks and making the key connections as they go, then that is its own kind of beautiful stunt. Frank’s ascendency to the Oval Office felt somehow both shocking and preordained, a rare duality in television.

How many other shows achieve that? For all its pleasing knottiness, Homeland often strikes out with a storyline and promptly abandons it. (Dana and the V.P.’s kid comes to mind.) Lately Mad Men has tended to get lost in its haze of allegory and allusion, to the point that recent seasons have felt more like disorienting jumbles of pathos instead of stories. (It’s still a beautiful show, but it’s hard to say what it’s about anymore.) Game of Thrones augustly marches along with a noble and admirable sense of purpose, but the source material is so jampacked with characters and plotlines that the show is frequently forced to move at an abbreviated, CliffsNotes-y clip. Just look how little actual screen time each character gets.

The only show that’s really comparable to House of Cards’ careful, diligent thoroughness is Breaking Bad, a series that was great for many reasons, not least among them that it never forgot its own history. That’s a key factor in determining a show’s Greatness: Does it remember where it’s been? Even if the show is otherwise wobbly and inconsistent, like Dexter, a sharp sense of recall, a constant vigilance over loose ends, can turn something entertaining into an experience that’s vital and wholly rewarding. No show is doing that better than House of Cards right now.

That strange episode in the first season when Frank visited his old military school and made some wispy references to a past homoerotic dalliance? It was satisfied nearly a whole season later with the now infamous Meacham threesome. Sure, it didn’t have much of anything to do with the larger plot, at least not yet, but it answered some questions about Frank’s character in a way that deliciously rewarded a good memory. In arguably more important parts of the narrative, look at how the show has woven Rachel, who would surely have been a throwaway character on a lesser series, into the political and emotional intrigue. The series is thoughtful enough to see the potential in each character; nearly everyone is given their due, helping the world of the show achieve a mesmerizing texture and sense of depth. The thicker the air is with criss-crossing motivations and shifting allegiances, the more ingenious fun the show has moving through it. It’s a daunting juggling act, keeping so many pieces of plot in play, but House of Cards does it, with uncanny ease and sophistication.

Yes, sophistication. Because the show can often seem so pleased with its own cleverness, it’s easy to overlook how actually artful and well-tailored it is. Especially in season two, with episodes that were elliptically built, that grew and grew with elegant and ominous momentum, and that didn’t solely rely on big shocking moments to hook us—they also gave us quiet moments of mysterious beauty. Think of poor, doomed Doug Stamper being read to by Rachel, or Garrett sadly gazing at a painting. For a show as propulsive and deviously minded as House of Cards, there’s a surprising amount of artistry on display. Season 2 found a thrilling new creative confidence, the writers keeping the long game ever in mind while taking the occasional moment to savor and consider the weight of the world they’d created.

And what a cast has been assembled! Not just the obvious standouts like Spacey and Robin Wright, but New York theater staples like Jayne Atkinson and Reed Birney, or familiar TV faces like Gerald McRaney, Molly Parker, and Mahershala Ali, all doing new and exciting things. They leave the showiness to Spacey and give us characters, few who are strictly either heroes or villains, who make the show hum with life. It’s an expert company, all pitching in to make this wild thing addictively operatic, but still alarmingly credible. It’s probably the best cast on TV, smooth and assured and sneaky without ever showing us the work.

I was wrong to paint House of Cards as simply a diverting treat. It is definitely that, but just underneath all the winking and cornpone theatrics is a furious, expansive mind. Trickily plotted and stunningly executed, this is a show that can, and should, stand shoulder to shoulder with the best of the recent television renaissance. It may not be the most profound of series, but it is a near-perfect version of itself. Which is about as high praise as you can give in the vast and varied landscape of television these days. I can’t wait for season 3.